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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24135634">when I've found my faith (I still may doubt it)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90'>TeaCub90</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Affection, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cuddling &amp; Snuggling, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Crowley, Soft Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:27:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,062</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24135634</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>‘Oh. Ah,’ Aziraphale shifts; seems contorted by whatever’s bothering him. Crowley watches calmly, gives the angel his patience. He shouted at the plants again today and exposed the affair of a CEO on the way here; he’s relaxed, he’s got time. ‘H-hello.’</i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>when I've found my faith (I still may doubt it)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>My mental health has been quite horrific over the past couple of months since the lockdown was implemented and while I would like to write something bigger now that I'm (slowly) starting to improve, right now I find I don't have much mental energy beyond producing little h/c one-shots like these. Thanks for the support, and stay safe, friends. Title inspired by Mae's 'Bloom.'</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p> </p><p>Crowley finds him in St. James' Park, standing alone by the lake, watching the ducks swim by, their beady eyes turning to inspect him as the only apparent observer to their swimming routine; humans are scurrying here and there and clouds are rolling in. Aziraphale’s face, his eyes, are like granite as he stares out, unseeing; past the ducks, past the pond-life, past the trees, to something beyond. He looks a hundred years older; his hands, clasped together in front of his body, are fidgeting like angry crabs. He hasn’t got his coat, Crowley notes with a start as he gets closer; instead he’s still wearing his favourite, comfortable cardigan. He never wears it outside the shop.</p><p>Well then. He slinks up to the angel’s side – it feels less like a clandestine meeting in the park this time, and more along the lines of simply helping a friend – and stands beside him, looking out at the water. It’s reminiscent of other, particular days in their history; all that’s missing are the posh frocks of the 1800s, the clicking of carriages, the clip-clop of horses along the path (Crowley likes horses. Likes their patience and the all-seeing, chestnut comma of their eyes and the fact that they never shy away from him, never rear up, when he pats their flanks, strokes the soft fur of their noses; sensed<em> something</em> about him, sure, but were never <em>scared.</em> Truly magnificent creatures; Crowley makes a hobby out of damning those who attempt to smuggle them for a living).</p><p>‘You alright?’ he asks, digging his hands into his back-pockets, standing at an angle (no need to stand to attention any longer, the way the Victorians used to and that’s actually kind of a relief). Aziraphale seems to startle; at the question; at the fact that Crowley’s there at all, and yet, paradoxically doesn’t seem surprised. Really, Crowley could sense the angel’s distress a mile away – in fact, he did; followed it in the Bentley and everything. It’s what led him here; a call, a soft siren, an unspoken loneliness, a plea for help.</p><p>‘Oh. Ah,’ Aziraphale shifts; seems contorted by whatever’s bothering him. Crowley watches calmly, gives the angel his patience. He shouted at the plants again today and exposed the affair of a CEO on the way here; he’s relaxed, he’s got time. ‘H-Hello.’ It’s a parody, a nervousness; one that takes Crowley back to the Beginning, watching Adam and Eve skulk miserably from the Garden, nothing but leaves, a bun in the oven and a flaming sword to show for their shame. For his part, he greets him with a tilted head, a finger-salute; watches Aziraphale continue to flap.</p><p>‘Bad day, is it?’ he asks eventually, would-be casual. ‘Can I do anything?’ <em>Just tell me who I need to crash the Bentley into, angel. </em></p><p>‘I…’ Aziraphale can’t seem to look at him at all, suddenly, which is frankly very hurtful. ‘I don’t know,’ he mutters finally and Crowley gets a little closer.</p><p>‘Can I help?’ Same question, different wording. Take that, Mr. Plagiarizing William Shakespeare (it might have taken him a week to calm down after having his words nicked, if he hadn’t been so impressed at the other man’s deceitfulness in the first place). When nothing is forthcoming, he decides <em>hell with it</em> and steps right into Aziraphale’s space, props his chin on his shoulder.</p><p>‘No?’ he asks, pushing gently; Aziraphale swallows.<em> Something,</em> Crowley knows, is caught behind his mouth, his teeth, stuck on the very tip of his tongue; something is making him stutter. As though someone has built an Aziraphale-shaped robot and forgotten to wire it properly. Crowley hums, crosses both his arms across the angel’s chest and takes great gratification from the fact that he’s not shoved away, told <em>no,</em> <em>do you know what trouble we’d be in if they knew… </em>No raised eyebrow to the heavens, no dismissing talk of <em>fraternising</em> (there are, Crowley reckons, certain pains associated with certain words throughout history, depending on that individual’s experience with such words – how they were spoken, or written by others, with anger, with disappointment, with rage. In Crowley’s own experience, there are several words – beside the inevitable F-word – that come under this flag; words like <em>questions, baby</em> and <em>thermos,</em> to name but a few).</p><p>Instead, Aziraphale sighs; lets the demon lean against him – even, unbelievably, leans right back. Even, in fact, deigns to place his own hand right over Crowley’s wrist; closes his eyes; huffs, the heaviest and most pained sound in the world, their hair, vanilla and molten, brushing as they hold each other beside the water. Crowley can only stare, wide-eyed, at the ground; at the fact that this is suddenly, <em>apparently,</em> allowed.</p><p>(And that, actually? It’s kind of - <em>someone</em> preserve him - kind of, sort of, a little bit <em>nice).</em> </p><p>They stand, side-by-side, for a long moment; Crowley shifts a little, rocking them both and hears Aziraphale exhale, shakily, his breath coming out like harsh, spring-time fog. It’s a windy day and with that thought, Crowley decides <em>what the hell,</em> it’s been a while, after all and with that his hands are full of a sudden, mysterious blanket – a white and grey tartan blanket, clean and fresh and new, holding it in front of Aziraphale like a curtain; the angel shifts, gasps at the sight of it as Crowley moves to wrap it around his shoulders.</p><p>‘Don’t get cold,’ he cautions grimly in the face of the angel’s stunned silence; feels the stupidity of stating the obvious into this shared quiet of theirs – that and the nostalgia of years of bullying Warlock into his coat on chilly days, of holding an umbrella over his head.</p><p>‘Thankyou.’ Aziraphale blinks up at him and when their eyes meet, Crowley sees it; eyelashes thick with the clumps of tears, spilling out and over and he can’t help but exclaim, swear even, raises a finger to them, completely caught off-guard.</p><p>‘Wh – no. Don’t – don’t do that, don’t cry.’ It’s his turn to flap, to stagger and stammer uselessly; pats himself down for a handkerchief (never has one; that’s the thing. Never learnt anything from his years hanging around Queen’s dressing-rooms, did he; no matter how flashy the outfits, always bring a sodding hanky) finally gives up and uses his fingers, his thumbs, to cup Aziraphale’s face, to wipe at the thick droplets; not salty like a human’s, but rather with the cleansing sheen of pure rain-water, the kind that befalls a forest, keeps it nourished – only for Aziraphale to pull away, startled, an ‘Oh!’ falling from his lips, leaving Crowley clutching nothing but air.</p><p>‘My dear,’ he exclaims; rebukes, even, slightly hoarse and completely shocked out of his painful preoccupation, eyes wet and wide, like a thunderstorm battering against a window, ‘you <em>must </em>be careful. You don’t know if…’ He gestures between them, his damp gaze falling on Crowley’s hands and Crowley breathes out, understands; shakes out his fingers reassuringly.</p><p>‘No harm to me, angel.’ He wriggles his palms, damp but nothing more, in front of Aziraphale’s face. ‘See?’ It’s a bit of a strange contradiction, if you think about it – he can’t go into a church without requiring weeks of footbaths afterwards, but the tears of an angel – or this one, at least – leave him completely un-scalded; safe and sound. There’s a lot to be said for that – probably a small case of their six-thousand-year connection (that, or Aziraphale’s addiction to sushi is doing wonders for his corporeal form).</p><p>‘Nothing to be afraid of.’ He keeps his voice soft, everything about him soft, as he steps back into the angel’s space. ‘Really, angel. Don’t be scared. Be <em>sacred,’</em> he adds, teasingly and a smile twitches Aziraphale’s lips. ‘But don’t be scared.’</p><p>The smile falls away as soon as it comes, as though it were a fish-hook being flouted around by an irresponsible boatman; Aziraphale tightens the blanket around his shoulders, looks to the floor. Crowley decides it’s time to bring out the big guns and so promptly removes his glasses.</p><p>‘Talk to me, angel,’ he encourages; Aziraphale swallows; looks away. ‘Have they – did they come for you? Gabriel and that lot? Is that why you’re out here?’ The thought of the angel being chased away from his ground, right out of his precious bookshop, is more than enough ammunition to crack the face of Big Ben; to trip up the jogger whistling at two ladies in passing, on the other side of the fence (actually, Crowley decides what the hell and with a jerk of the head, trips the bastard up anyway, lets the ladies’ scream of laughter serve as his reward); to march right back into SoHo, back into that shop where Gabriel would no doubt be holding fort with a smug smile and a bottle of celestial water, grab him by the collar, and pull him right out of Aziraphale’s domain, toss him bodily out of the door.</p><p>But the angel just shakes his head, yet still looks miserable, wiping his nose and cheeks on a corner of the blanket.</p><p>‘I – I don’t <em>really </em>know what’s wrong,’ he says finally; admits aloud, simple as that. ‘I’m just…not having a…particularly good day,’ he chuckles damply, a tight smile that goes nowhere near those blue eyes, scrubs at his face roughly. ‘Should really get a grip on myself.’ He chokes on the last word, his shame evident, huddles further into the blanket as though it’s his only solace; looks small with it, diminished. Crowley hovers, settles for running his hands up and down those blanketed arms, draws breath to speak, to say something useful, comforting even – only for the angel to beat him to it.</p><p>‘I just…’ the words practically snap the air, a resigned chuff of expectation. ‘I’m not…<em>completely </em>sure I’m allowed to – to be <em>happy.’  </em>He lets out a shuddering breath with the confession, along with more tears and Crowley’s mouth falls open in the same instant his arms do.</p><p>‘Oh…angel, that’s not true. You <em>know</em> that’s not true.’ He doesn’t think anyone’s managed to stun him so much since he was tied to a chair in a celestial body in Heaven’s HQ and sensed, right before he saw, that truly idiotic demon with the bad hair swaggering in, armed with a flippant comment and a handful of Hellfire.</p><p>‘I’m sorry,’ Aziraphale’s words are muffled as they collide with Crowley’s chest, as he leans into him, held at the elbows, sobs into the exposed slash of skin left by the deep V of his shirt. Crowley can feel the angel's forehead wrinkles against his chest hair; the dampness against the fabric; the rarest kind of physical contact that doesn’t come along very often; much in the same way they might hold hands, whether they’re swapping bodies or fleeing an army, side-by-side. </p><p>‘It’s alright, angel,’ Crowley cradles him, rests his cheek atop his hair. ‘You’re alright, you’re alright.’ They’re useless platitudes, but they seemed to work with Warlock when he was little – whenever he tripped up and banged himself, or his father had to go back to America, or the kids at school laughed at him (although stamping on slugs helped a lot, too). ‘You’ll be alright, promise.’</p><p>The blanket makes to fall off Aziraphale’s shoulders; like a dashing suitor chasing after Elizabeth Bennet, Crowley makes to grab it, to put it to rights – only for Aziraphale to claim it and wrap both his arms and the blanket around Crowley’s shoulders in an embrace, promptly sharing the warmth, for all the world as if their positions are reversed, as if <em>he’s</em> the one offering comfort.</p><p>Well, then. Suppose once wouldn’t hurt, <em>spectacularly</em> <em>unstylish</em> as it looks - or as warm as it feels. Blinking hard, Crowley cards a hand through those fine, white-chocolate locks, listens to the hum slipping from Aziraphale’s mouth, suspiciously contented-sounding as he rests his head against the demon's chest; right over the spot where his heart might well be. They stay close for a moment, the ducks their only vaguely-interested witnesses to the scene, protected and tented by tartan - even as the wind picks up, and the first raindrops start to fall.</p><p>‘Come on,’ Crowley urges softly, as the drops scatter the ground around them with damp little thuds; pauses and then presses his mouth, just briefly, to Aziraphale’s forehead. ‘I’ll take you home.’</p><p>*</p>
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